


A Bitter Pill

by Hanna



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanna/pseuds/Hanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Fenris are captured by Hadriana during 'A Bitter Pill' and brought to Tevinter as slaves. Rape on the peripheries but never described.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bitter Pill

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, nothing is mine :(

**A Bitter Pill**

It was the fire traps, she reckoned, that did her in. She’d faced the undead before without any problems, and slavers were a piece of cake.

So it must have been the fire traps.

She was in bad way when they limped into the room, and found Hadriana. At least, by the feral way Fenris shouted and launched himself across the room at the woman, she guessed that she was Hadriana. She was too busy fighting slavers and trying not to pass out to check if she wore a name badge.

Her head was swimming. Her muscles were leaden. Her robes were burned, and her skin underneath them. She could barely maintain her grasp on her staff, let alone summon the energy to cast spells. She was in a corner, weakly trying (and failing) to fend three off at once, when Varric saw her predicament.

“Hawke!” he shouted in sudden panic and three crossbow bolts flew through the air, each finding its target. The slavers thudded to the floor. She made to thank him, but it took too much effort to raise her hand in acknowledgement, and her voice was barely a croak.

She sank against the floor and felt darkness pulsing around her. The world swam. Vaguely she saw someone approach her and felt for her staff, but her grasping fingers found nothing. She blinked, and felt reality slipping away from her. She struggled to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. Her eyelids were too heavy.

The world slipped away from her.

XX

When she woke up, the ground was jolting beneath her. Her head hurt. She was momentarily confused before she realised that her companions must have told Hubert to get a wagon up here to get her back. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Anders would be furious with her. The thought made her smile. He was handsome when he was angry. Not that he wasn’t handsome when he _wasn’t_ angry- happy never seemed to suit him- he was just particularly handsome when he was.

“Hawke,” an urgent voice said, and someone shook her. Bare hands. Calloused hands. They felt like Carver’s hands. She was confused. Her brother couldn’t be here. He couldn’t visit her. He was in Ferelden, or something, with the Wardens, doing… Warden things.

“Hawke!” the voice repeated, more urgently, and the shaking increased. “Wake up, Mercy!” She opened her eyes and white hair swam before her eyes.

“Fenris?” she asked groggily, trying to sit up and managing about half an inch above the ground. “Why aren’t you wearing your gauntlets?”

He pushed her back down.

“Don’t try to move,” he said. He sounded worried. She tried to fight him, to sit and look around, but didn’t have the strength.

“Hadriana healed you,” she could hear the disgust in his tone as he spoke, and something else. She couldn’t identify it. “But only enough that you survived.”

“Had- she isn’t dead?” she asked, frowning. “But…”

Fenris’ expression cut her short. He looked desperate, defiant and… afraid? What was he afraid of? Fenris wasn’t afraid of anything. Except…

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“Appropriate choice of words, Mercy Hawke,” an unfamiliar voice said from behind her. Fenris stiffened, placing himself in front of her.

“Now now, Fenris,” the woman chided, “You aren’t thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?” He stood ramrod straight, looked at Mercy, then…

“No,” he growled.

“Oh, good. I’d hate to harm such a pretty specimen.”

And Mercy had just enough time to think _that doesn’t sound good_ before she passed out again.

XX

She woke with a pounding headache. Groaning, she made to push herself up, but found her hands were bound behind her back. She frowned and tried to remember what had happened.

“Fenris?” she called. “Merrill? Varric?”

“Just me,” Fenris said wearily on the other side of the wagon. He was sitting against the wall, paler than usual, hands clasped, shaking, and looking mighty unhappy (but what else was new, really), unbound. He looked to be in a bad way. “They let the others go.”

This was evidently supposed to be good, but her head hurt too much for her to process why.

“What happened?” she asked. The last thing she remembered was seeing Fenris charge across the room with a bestial cry of rage.

“Hadriana… you collapsed. The others tried to help, but…” the elf heaved a deep sigh. “She had you and we couldn’t fight anymore.”

There were so many questions, but she settled for the most pressing.

“Fenris?” she asked, concerned. “Are you alright?”

He considered the question for a long time.

“I’m fine,” he finally replied. A merry laugh from behind her made her snap her head around, making to reach for a staff that was no longer on her. Her tied hands unbalanced her and she fell onto her side. Fenris rushed to her and helped her up.

“Thanks,” she murmured, flushing with embarrassment as the laughter continued and the woman finally came into her sight. “Hadriana, I presume?” she asked with as much dignity as she could muster while leaning against the wall of a wagon to stay upright.

“Ah, so Fenris has spoken of me!” the magister exclaimed in delight.

“Not until you showed your ugly face,” Mercy retorted. Fenris found himself wincing. Sure enough, Hadriana’s response was lightning fast and sent her reeling.

She blinked twice at the metallic tang of blood in her mouth and the pain searing across her cheek. The woman had a surprisingly strong slap for someone so finely built. She worked her jaw for a moment until she managed to get her tongue working.

“That tickled,” she managed, voice thick. Hadriana laughed delightedly.

“Oh, you will be fun,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together excitedly. A sense of foreboding started somewhere in the pit of Mercy’s stomach and when she looked at Fenris, she could see that he felt it too.

XX

“Why are you unbound?” Mercy asked Fenris some hours later. He looked at her, eyes soft yet bitter at the same time.

_Because they have a better leash to keep me on_ , he thought. That look was all the answer she needed. They were using her to control him.

Well, that settled it. She had to get her hands free, and make her blighted head stop spinning every time she moved. She wasn’t sure how to accomplish either goal, but she was a Hawke. She would find a way.

After she slept, though. Surely she would be able to think better after she slept, she thought sleepily as her eyes drifted shut.

XX

The floor was moving under her again when she woke, but it was a different kind of movement. Not the harsh jolting of a wagon but a gentle rocking. She heard water lapping against wood and realised she was on a ship now.

She remembered the last time she had been on a ship. She’d spent most of the two weeks curled in a corner trying not to throw up while Carver laughed at her. Blessed Andraste, why didn’t he get seasick too so that he would be too preoccupied throwing up to embarrass her?

But Carver wasn’t here this time. Instead she was on a slaver ship, with…

She didn’t see Fenris and panicked. She rose quickly- too quickly, her head spun and she had to put a hand against the hold to brace herself- and waited for a moment for her balance to return, only vaguely aware her hands were now unbound.

“Fenris?” she called. The elf emerged from a dark corner and regarded her unsteady pose, and the hand that remained firmly against the wall.

“You’re up,” he said.

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied. “Don’t let me eat anything. I’ll just throw it up everywhere if I do.” Her humour was forced, her smile strained.

“I doubt you need to worry about that.” His tone was dry and his voice cracked. He sounded as if he’d not drunk anything in a long time.

She suddenly became aware that she was parched, and her stomach grumbled loudly. She’d left Kirkwall before lunch, expecting their routine dispatch-the-bandits-and-return-before-sundown mission, when they’d encountered the slavers and their plans had changed.

Who knew how long it had been since then?

She slid down the wall and, looking concerned, Fenris sat beside her. He wrapped a steadying arm around her and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. She looked surprisingly vulnerable without her robes and staff. Her robes had been too burned to save and she had been put in a tatty shift instead, and as for her staff? What captor gives his captives weapons?

Though he knew that the staff was only a focus for magic- he’d seen her conjure fire from the sky without it before, and she never used it to heal. He wondered what else she could do without a staff.

“Fenris…” he’d heard that tone, vulnerable and scared, only once before, when she had admitted that she was claustrophobic- right before they entered the Deep Roads. He’d stared at her in incredulity.

“And you volunteered for _this_?” he’d asked, gesturing at the rocky tunnel they were going to descend into. She had shrugged stiffly, shoulders not as relaxed as she’d tried to make them, jaw set.

“I have no other choice.”

“Fenris, what is going to happen to us?” she asked, voice very small and timid. It shook slightly. He sighed.

“I will be returned to Danarius, and you will likely be sold, unless he takes a fancy to you too and decides to keep you.”

_Maker preserve him if he hurts her, I will kill him._ The thought surprised him with its fierceness, and he found that he almost wanted Danarius to keep her. He didn’t want her to be alone in Tevinter. He wanted her close so he could protect her.

She pressed closer to him, and tears were glittering under the surface of her green eyes. She didn’t need to say she was afraid. He knew. Just as she knew that he was afraid under his stoic face, and steady eyes. She could see the act he was putting on for her.

She almost wished he wouldn’t.

XX

They were fed fairly well, much to Mercy’s surprise. She supposed Fenris was a valuable slave, and he insisted on sharing his much larger fare with her. She (or rather, her growling stomach) hadn’t the heart to refuse him. So instead of dry retching in a corner, she threw up half Fenris’ meal.

She wasn’t sure enough food was getting to her stomach to keep her going before she threw it up.

She also wondered if it would be a bad thing if she died on the journey. Fenris had once told her that she had never known what it was to be a slave, and she had seen in his eyes that he didn’t want her to find out.

She knew how Tevinter valued magic, and the thought of what would happen to her made her shudder.

Tears threatened to escape her. Mother would never know what had happened to her. The thought of letting Mother down sent chills down her spine. She had promised Carver she would take care of her.

Though soon, she was sure, that would be the least of her worries.

XX

They spent a long time in that hold, alone. No guards were posted- where did they have to run to, after all? They were sure they were been watched, however.

For the first time, she let her tears fall, and admitted her fears to Fenris through strangled sobs and quick breaths, and he held her and let her cry. Their time in the hold, with only one another for company and comfort, made him more determined than ever not to let Danarius get his claws into her.

He did not want that monster to twist this gentle soul as he had twisted himself. He would not let it happen.

XX

Danarius was waiting at the docks for them, with a contingent of soldiers. His delight on seeing his ‘little wolf’ was clear, but he was even happier to see Hawke. Not because he knew her, but because of the way that Fenris placed himself before her protectively.

The vulture smelled an opportunity here.

“Who is this, Hadriana?” he asked, looking her up and down, appraising her value.

“A mage, Master,” Hadriana replied. “Mercy Hawke. She is skilled. I caught her protecting the slave.”

Danarius’ smile broadened.

“Indeed?” he asked. “So my little wolf has found a new mistress, then?” Mercy’s head shot up, eyes narrowed with fury. She made to take a step forward, but stumbled, unused to solid ground beneath her feet. Fenris steadied her and she shot him a grateful smile.

“Fenris is no slave,” she protested, her voice was a weak croak. She’d taken to not eating the last days of the journey, because she was sick of vomiting and not getting any more energy from eating, since she threw it all up anyway.

“I think you’ll find he is, little falcon,” the magister said, amused. “And I think I’ll keep you too.”

“No!” Fenris exclaimed, anger and fear in his voice. Danarius chuckled.

“Ah, my pet, so predictable,” he crooned. Unspeakable fury filled him, and he took a step forward, markings flaring into life, until Hadriana spoke behind him.

“Fenris,” she sang, and he would have ignored her if he hadn’t heard Mercy’s pained grunt. He spun around at that, to find Hadriana twisting her arm tightly behind her back, and Mercy’s eyes wide with pain.

Abruptly he stopped.

“Oh, yes, I am definitely keeping you,” Danarius said, stroking Mercy’s cheek as Hadriana released her wrist and she sagged slightly against the woman, panting. “I might even let dear Fenris remember you.”

XX

It wasn’t long before they figured out that their new control rod for Fenris went the other way too. She was still uncomfortable on dry land, but prepared to seize any chance to escape. She glanced at Fenris, who caught her eye, then turned away from him. He followed her gaze to the harbour edge.

She was planning on jumping in? They’d either succeed in escaping, or drown. Either way, they’d be free.

Worked for him.

Without giving any sign he knew her plan, he turned away again. But she had known him for four years now, and knew that he’d seen and understood her meaning. She was glad that she was still wobbly on her feet now. They’d not think much about her stumbling.

She took a deliberate step towards the edge and made as if she had stumbled, but as one of the soldiers came over to pick her up (again) she bolted.

She was nearly at the harbour edge when Danarius spoke calmly.

“I wouldn’t,” he advised, and she spun on her heel, the ground finally giving out under her as she did. She fell onto her hands and knees, but could now see that Danarius had Fenris firmly in his grasp.

She knew that Fenris could theoretically tear the man’s heart out where he stood, but also knew that if he did the soldiers would be on them in a heartbeat, and she was in no shape to fight.

Then there was Hadriana to contend with.

Heart heavy, she struggled to her feet, hands held in surrender. The soldier yanked her up and dragged her over to Danarius by the collar. Her reward was a sharp slap- _Maker, the man slapped harder than Hadriana_ (her long-lamented inability to hold her tongue had seen to it that she had received a few from the magister-in-training) _-_ that sent her reeling back into the soldier’s arms and the by now familiar metallic tang of blood on her tongue.

“Try that again, and you won’t like the consequences,” Danarius advised her.

“You won’t kill him,” she managed after a moment. “You wouldn’t have hunted him this long if he was disposable.” Fenris felt a smile tug at his lips, but held it back.

“He isn’t,” Danarius shrugged. “But I wasn’t referring to killing him.” His words held an aura of menace, and she suddenly knew that she did not want to make the man carry out whatever he had planned. With a glare at the soldier, she followed the magister as he set off again.

XX

For a moment, the pain was all she was aware of, was the centre of her entire world.

Slowly she blinked, and a room took shape around her as it receded, with the dream-like quality of the Fade. Confused, she pushed herself up and saw that she was knew the room- it was the room she had shared with Bethany in Lothering.

_Huh?_

Someone else was in the house. She could hear footsteps outside the door. She cautiously opened it, and there was Father. He turned and smiled at her warmly.

“Good morning, sweetie,” he said. “Sleep well?” She could only stare astounded at him, reaching out hesitantly to touch his hand.

“Father?” she asked, and Malcolm Hawke grasped her hand.

“That was quite a nightmare you were having, little falcon,” he crooned, and the address set off alarm bells in her head. Father had never called her that. In fact, she’d only been called ‘little falcon’ once, and that was not too long ago, by…

She suddenly snatched her hand away.

“Get out of my head, Danarius,” she snarled, summoning all her energy to break the illusion. It shattered around her, leaving her in the dark place of sleep when no dreams were filling it. Exhausted by the effort it had taken, she sank to what must have been the floor.

Danarius laughed somewhere.

“Smart little falcon,” he said. She raised her head through an act of supreme will to search for him, but couldn’t see him.

“Show yourself,” she demanded.

Fenris appeared before her, and her eyes widened before she reminded herself that this was a trick and none of it was real. After all, not a moment ago she had been in her childhood home with her dead father.

She did her best to ignore the illusion of Fenris, which stepped closer to her and wrapped his- it’s- arms around her. His- _its_ \- rough, calloused touch was very distracting, and she didn’t have the energy to break it.

“Stop it, Danarius! Face me yourself!” she said again, but her voice was strained.

“If you insist,” the man sighed, and the illusion of Fenris vanished as he stepped into view.

She had no doubt she was a pitiful sight, lying on the ‘ground’, visibly straining to keep her neck held high, but she made a good show of it.

“I will not submit to you,” she growled, just before her energy gave out. There was no floor for her head to hit, though. It was a most curious situation.

“Not willingly,” Danarius said with a wide smile.

XX

Her next surroundings were unfamiliar and had the harsh lines of reality, and if Danarius was trying to trick her again, he’d surely try something else from her memory- her mansion or Gamlen’s house.

No, not Gamlen’s house, not unless he was crazy. If he could see her memories, he could surely know what she felt too. The thought terrified her. She was laid bare before this man. Her house of cards would collapse. She’d gone to so much trouble to cover just how much she blamed herself for Carver, for Bethany, for Father. So much trouble to pretend she was fine.

She was not going to let a _slaver_ bring that toppling about her head.

She looked around. She was alone, and the door was ajar. She eased herself up, and was glad when she found the floor had stopped rolling beneath her and she could walk without clutching at walls. A tray of food was near her, with a pitcher of water, and she was ravenous.

She pulled it close and practically inhaled it.

Danarius was watching her when she looked up. She wondered how long he’d been there, but found it didn’t really matter. Her stomach was no longer contracting in pain from being hungry.

“Can you cook?” he asked, and she almost laughed at the absurd idea. If Carver were here, he’d testify as to how bad her cooking was. He seemed to take her expression as an answer.

“Clean?”

“I wasn’t always employing servants, you know,” she said. “I can take care of myself.” Danarius seemed genuinely pleased.

“Good to know. I could use you for that, but you are a mage, and there are better things for mages to do than cook and clean.”

“I’m not using blood magic,” she stated flatly, shaking her head. “No way.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” the man said smoothly, amused. “But you will provide power for mine. Magic blood is always the best.”

“No!” she exclaimed, taking a step back. “I won’t do that!” His mouth set in a hard line, his amused eyes suddenly colder than ice.

“You’ll do whatever I tell you to,” he said, and her eyes widened at the aura of power that radiated from him. She suddenly understood why slaves did not question their masters. Then it was gone and he was the genial, amused man she’d known so far again.

“Or dear Fenris will pay for your mistakes.”

She paled.

“Don’t you hurt him,” she half snapped, half pleaded.

“I won’t have to if you be a good little falcon and cooperate,” the magister said, cocking his head, and she knew he’d won.

“Fine,” she spat. “I’ll power your experiments. Just don’t hurt him.”

“And here Hadriana thought you’d be hard to tame,” Danarius laughed.

XX

Fenris, meanwhile, was struggling with his identity.

Here he was, with Master- Danarius, he corrected himself, struggling to keep the two separate in his head- expected to perform his duties as a loyal bodyguard, which was after all the reason he had been given the markings. To serve Mas- _Danarius_ \- better.

Yet there was Hawke.

He remembered her quick, gentle smile. Her laugh. The way she’d coaxed him out of his shell, and how he’d found himself telling her things he’d never told anyone else. Things like Seheron, like the fact he couldn’t read. He remembered her soft hand on his arm, holding him back from bloodlust, when no one else could.

He remembered the softness in her eyes when she looked at him, how her hand lingered on his arm longer than it did on anyone else’s, remembered long nights drinking aggregio and other alcoholic beverages (none of which were as good as the aggregio in his opinion) and he remembered the secrets she’d told him.

Even her name- Mercy- was perfect. For she was merciful, to the extreme of leniency. He’d tried to make her see that not all mages could be saved, but she kept insisting they could.

It was nice to see someone who wasn’t a cynic, despite all the cause in the world to be one.

He had to keep fighting. He couldn’t give up, couldn’t slip back into being Danarious’s ‘little wolf’ again, for her sake, because she deserved better than this, because she’d suffered enough already.

He remembered freedom, choosing what to do, what to say, what to eat. He liked freedom. It gave him something to dream about.

He had to fight. If not for her- for himself.

XX

The first time Fenris realised what Danarius intended for Hawke, he nearly killed the man. She was standing behind Hadriana, waiting for the ritual to start, just as he was waiting behind Danarius. He fully expected his blood to be used- but when Danarius beckoned her forward his eyes widened in horror.

“Your blood isn’t the only useful blood, my pet,” Danarius chuckled. “Don’t get jealous, my little Fenris.”

“Don’t you dare use her for this,” Fenris had bit out, fury in his voice.

“And why not? It’s willingly offered.” The elf had turned to stare at Hawke, who regarded him with eyes so weary that he knew that it was her blood in exchange for his memories. He never, ever wanted to forget her and slip back into being Danarius’s pet- but was it worth this?

“It’s okay, Fenris,” she’d said, voice heavy as she stepped forward and held her arm out. Her eyes said it all as Danarius brought the knife across her wrist and grabbed it, dragging her close to him as she paled suddenly and stumbled as the crimson substance dripped out of the cut- _I have no choice._

He bit back his anger as fear and disgust swirled in his stomach. Fear for her- he had no doubts Danarius would be moderate with the amount of blood he took, he always did save enough for later- but Hadriana was a different story. And disgust that it was him they were using to make her do this. The Hawke he knew would never willingly submit to blood magic.

Then again, slavery changed everyone.

XX

She stumbled against the wall, holding her head in her hands as the world span around her. Slowly she sank to the floor, taking deep, steadying breaths.

She needed to eat something. It’s what Anders would recommend- after he chewed her out for letting her blood fuel a magister’s magic. The thought of the blonde mage sent a spear of grief through her. She would probably never see her friend again. Thinking about Anders made her think of Isabela, who despite her light-heartedness would be surely worried sick for her; Varric (and Bianca), who she had come to rely on in times of trouble; Aveline, who she cared deeply for despite their constant arguments about the _finer_ points of the law (and one memorable occasion when the redhead threw her to the floor and beat her black and blue, which, admittedly, she had asked for); and Merrill. The girl was so sweet and loveable- despite her blood magic.

She’d grown used to blood magic over the last several weeks. It didn’t seem quite as abhorrent to her now. Her own blood had fuelled so much of it. It had made her feel sick at first, but there was no other choice.

Growing up apostate had taught her that sometimes you had to accept a situation for what it was.

She saw Fenris a lot, thankfully. He shadowed Danarius, was with him everywhere he went. She watched him closely for signs that his memory had been tampered with, but by the defiance in his eyes and the looks he cast her, she knew it hadn’t.

Often his blood, too, was used to power Danarius’s rituals. Today the magister had only used her blood. As she tried to stand, she almost fell again, and the elf gently steadied her, holding her until she was able to balance on her own.

She cast him a grateful smile.

“Thanks,” she murmured, holding his hand a moment longer than was necessary. Danarius and Hadriana watched the pair before they turned and left the room. Both slaves- oh how she hated the term- followed.

Mercy had been assigned to serve Hadriana, much as Fenris served Danarius, and Hadriana took great pleasure in denying her meals and hounding her sleep. She demanded the oddest services at the oddest hours of the day, and often used her blood to enhance a spell without Danarius there, taking a lot more of it too.

By the looks the woman was casting her, she wouldn’t be eating tonight. She sighed and prepared to ignore her rumbling stomach and parched throat.

Hopefully she’d have a chance to talk to Fenris again. The pair had taken to meeting up whenever they could during duty breaks, and last night they’d had nearly a whole ten minutes uninterrupted time.

It said something that she now counted time in seconds and minutes instead of hours and days. She simply couldn’t plan ahead that far. Either Hadriana or Danarius needed something, or she was finally allowed to eat, or she could take a few minutes to sit down, or her blood was needed for a ritual, and that was more important than abstract plans for an unlikely future.

She now understood what Fenris had meant when they had spoken that night, when he’d said that slaves think of only satisfying their masters and what the next hour might bring. She had learned that the easiest way to get sleep and meals was to please Hadriana.

Which wasn’t easy. The woman was bitter about being laughed at by the other magisters and took it out on the slaves, especially her, beating her, taking more of her blood than was safe (or indeed necessary) for her spells, and using her.

“You’re so damned desperate, get a whore,” she had snarled at her when she’d first been ordered to be her bedpartner.

“Why pay?” Hadriana had asked (after slapping her _again_ \- really, she had to learn to stop antagonising the woman) and shoved her on the bed.

She hadn’t eaten for a week after that, and since had quietly complied with the cruel woman. It wasn’t the first time she’d bedded a woman (memories of her night with Isabela swam to mind, but she quickly silenced them, not because they were bad, but because she didn’t like to think about home), but this wasn’t so much bedding as rape.

And because she was a slave, it didn’t even count.

Danarius was harsh on his slaves, expecting nothing less than perfection. She was afraid that one day he would go too far, take too much blood, that she wouldn’t be able to cope. She was afraid that he’d bleed her dry, because where would Fenris be then?

What would Mother do then?

She quickly shied away from that thought. Thinking of Mother only made this harder. Better she think her dead than a slave.

“Girl!” Hadriana snapped and a sharp tug on her hair brought her back to the world. She shot Fenris an exasperated look and followed her the other direction.

XX

Fenris had found her outside the room after the first time Hadriana had raped her. She was staring into the distance, tears still visible on her cheeks, completely naked. He knew what had happened and ran to get something to cover her up with. As he spread the sheet gently over her, she stiffened at the contact before realising who it was.

“Fenris,” she whispered, her voice cracked and broken.

Shaking with anger, and remembering the first time Danarius had used him (he, having no other memories or experiences, found it an honour to serve Master, he remembered with disgust.) He sat down beside her and wrapped a tender arm around her. She flinched away and he quickly retracted it.

“Don’t…” her voice trailed off and he sat in silence, unsure what to do to comfort her as she huddled into herself, wrapping her arms around the legs she’d brought up to her chest, rocking compulsively back and forth.

“I’m going to kill that bitch,” he muttered in Arcanum.

XX

Late that night, after Hadriana had shoved her out of the bed, she’d found Fenris sitting outside the door, eyes dark with anger.

He checked her all over for injury apart from the obvious. “I hate that you’re here. It’s my fault. You were in that den for me.” It wasn’t the first time he’d expressed this sentiment, but she was too sore to argue the point tonight. Gingerly she settled herself against the wall.

“Is it any different to what Danarius does to you?” she asked. The elf stiffened slightly, eyes registering shock for a moment. “I know, Fenris. I have ears and eyes.”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. His lack of reply was all the reply she needed. They sat in companionable silence, hands gently held. She turned to him after a few minutes, the light of the dying fire flickering in her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Fenris,” she sighed. “The blood magic. The errands. I can’t keep…” she threw a look at the door of Hadriana’s room with a shudder and he knew what she was referring to. “I’m not sure if I can keep fighting.” He put his hands on her shoulders.

“I know you can,” he told her firmly. She tried to avert her eyes, but he spoke gently. “Look at me, Mercy. I know you’re strong enough for this.”

“Not without you.”

It was a broken whisper, and he pulled her close. She threw her arms around him, seeking the comfort that she wasn’t just a piece of property to be used and abused and thrown away after the act was done.

“I remain by your side,” he promised. He couldn’t keep it- this was beyond his control- and both knew it, but he said it anyway. She burst into tears and he simply held her close and let her cry into his shoulder.

XX

Hawke became a piece of valuable property as well, nearly as valuable as Fenris. She was a capable mage who was easy on the eyes (which always helped) and Danarius received many offers for her. But they were all turned down. He liked having his ‘little falcon’ around, liked tormenting his little wolf through her, and his little falcon through him. She was highly useful too- resilient against the offers of demons (after all, your slave turning into an abomination was a waste of money), and able to sacrifice large amounts of blood for rituals.

He liked, too, how she occupied Hadriana. He had ordered Hadriana not to kill her- she was too useful on many fronts to him- but anything else was fair game. As such, he’d often see his little falcon stumbling about, paler than was healthy, or, at night, sitting gingerly with her knees drawn up around her chest, legs slightly apart, shivering and clearly in pain.

He was tempted to try her out himself sometimes. But he had his Fenris, and was satisfied.

He’d seen the two slaves talking late at night, watched them getting closer. He allowed it. It gave him greater control over the both of them.

XX

Fenris had watched the light in her eyes dying for months without being able to do anything about it, and finally he’d had enough.

“We’re getting out,” he said, firmly, one night. She looked up at him with disbelieving eyes- the eyes of a slave, he thought with sorrow.

“How?” she asked. This was not the Hawke he’d known in Kirkwall- the Hawke he knew would have been champing at the bit, making plans and seizing every opportunity. But now she was not that Hawke. She had succumbed to the fate of so many slaves- despair.

“I’ve been watching. They’ve become lenient, sure that we will cooperate. They’re relaxing their guard. In a week, important guests are coming.”

“Some other magister,” she said, perking up slightly now she saw where he was going. She knew all about it. The household was in a flurry preparing, and practically all the slaves had been pressed into service for the event, even her and Fenris.

It must be bloody important if even the bodyguards were set to clean.

“Which means we’ll be shown off,” she realised, and her heart sank. “No chance to slip away.” Hadriana had shown great joy in making her do demeaning things before others, particularly important others. It gave her pleasure to show off her pet mage to the other magisters, who all laughed at her. Though Hawke was always severely punished for absolutely nothing afterwards, in order to assuage Hadriana’s ego, it was always worth it to see her ‘mistress’ humiliated.

“Not necessarily.” The gleam in Fenris’ eyes piqued her interest.

“What are you planning?” she asked.

“We’re cleaning as well, aren’t we? Surely two slaves amongst all the rest won’t be missed.” Suddenly she grinned, and he saw the old Hawke gleam in her green eyes. This was the Hawke who spent every sovereign she had to go to the Deep Roads on the off chance she might change the fortune of her family- despite her raging claustrophobia.

“Fenris, you are a genius.”

XX

The next day, Danarius- and inevitably, Hadriana, who followed Danarius like an orphaned nug cub- went to the market.  Fenris and Hawke were disappointed, but by necessity both had learned to hide their emotions and betrayed no signs of this. There was no way to slip away at the market.

They weren’t assigned to cleaning duty anymore, and their nightly meetings were cut off. Fenris was ordered to stay in Danarius’s room, and Mercy was not exiled from the room anymore, instead forced to stay with the woman she hated most.

Their plan had been discovered, it seemed. Which didn’t mean that when they did travel together they weren’t looking for ways to escape.

Their greatest chance was at the banquet, but they had to stick close to the sides of their charges. Who fortunately sat together, so they could at least remain close to each other as they watched their only chance of escape slip away.

It was this which finally broke her. As the magister and his attendants left, she stared after the closed door and broke down in tears.

She didn’t even try to resist when Hadriana dragged her upstairs, and Fenris’ heart broke watching her.

_I am going to kill you,_ he thought, and wasn’t sure whether it was directed at Hadriana or Danarius. Perhaps it was directed at both.

Either way, he was going to come through.


	2. What Magic Touches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver brings Hawke and Fenris home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only encountered Stroud in Dragon Age 2 (not sure if he turns up anywhere else), so my interpretation of the character is based on that brief encounter.

**What Magic Touches**

Carver was cursed.

Magic followed him everywhere he went. He’d grown up having to compete with it for Father’s attention, never allowed to succeed in case his success drew notice to his family of apostates. In Kirkwall everything was about mages or Templars. There was no middle ground between the two camps, between Maker given duty and family loyalty. And now he found himself in _Tevinter_.

Just because he was passing through on Official Warden Business didn’t make it any easier to be here. He hated this place, hated seeing slaves everywhere, the blatant use of magic. Tevinter was a horrible place, and he swore never to return- _ever_ \- even on Official Warden Business.

He bumped into a slave on an errand as he made his way through the market, Stroud by his side. He started to apologise, but she was already gone, scurrying away as if he were a monster.

He sighed.

They had no better luck further into the market. A storekeeper was telling someone –very _very_ quickly, sounding pained- that he only sold goods for market price. This in and of itself was not unusual- but what was unusual was the elf standing in front of the storekeeper with his fist shoved into his chest.

_Fenris!_

Carver’s expression must have shown recognition, for Stroud looked questioningly at him.

“Just an odd sight,” he covered quickly. The man raised an eyebrow at him, and let him get away with the excuse. Carver was thinking fast. If Fenris was here, then surely Mercy was here somewhere. He’d seen the way she’d looked at the elf, at least when he still lived in Kirkwall, and even if that had passed, knew she would never let the former slave return to Minrathous alone.

Or… not so former slave.

“If you really want to be like that,” a man standing nearby shrugged. “Kill him,” he ordered the elf.

“No!” the man exclaimed. “I… I’ll refund you… I’ll do anything…”

“You’ll pay me back everything- and interest,” the man, who must be Danarius, said. The merchant, staring at the fist in his chest, nodded quickly, whimpering with pain.

“Yes, yes, take everything, it’s all here, just please… let me go…”

“Or we could just kill you and take it,” Danarius added thoughtfully. “My pet?” The man’s eyes widened then choked as the fist inside his chest turned suddenly solid. He sank to the ground as Fenris pulled it out, distaste on his features.

“Falcon,” Danarius ordered.

A gaunt, far too thin woman entered the scene now and went behind the merchant’s table, opening the chest and gathering the goods up in her arms. As she turned to him, Carver gasped, horror struck.

It was Mercy.

This time Stroud did not let his excuse pass.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“My sister,” Carver whispered, forcing the words out. He hoped this was a terrible nightmare, that he’d wake up and his smug sister and the elf she fancied would be back in Kirkwall where they belonged and he could get on with his life in peace. He blinked, hard, but when he opened them again Mercy and Fenris were still there.

Stroud raised an eyebrow.

“How?” Carver whispered, a lead weight sinking into his belly. Screw the Official Warden Business, his sister was a _slave!_

“I would assume slavers captured her,” Stroud remarked. Carver turned to glare at him, icily.

“I figured that much out for myself,” he snapped. “And Fenris… they must have caught them together… oh, shit…”

He was striding forward as he spoke, purpose in his steps. Stroud caught his arm to stop him.

“We must not interfere,” he said. “You know the rules.”

 _“That’s my sister!”_ Carver snarled back, snatched his arm from Stroud’s grasp, and marched firmly on.

XX

It was the last thing Mercy Hawke had expected to see- this day or any other. A few years had passed since she had become a slave (she’d lost track of the time), and each day was more or less like the last. The sight of her brother striding towards her, fury in every line, as such, came as something of a surprise.

Whenever Hadriana or Danarius were that angry, she had done something wrong. She automatically flinched away- not dropping the weapons she carried. Slaves did not disobey orders or they were rightly punished. Carver looked her up and down, checking for injury, noting her many scars and bruises and the way she held herself defensively, scowled deeper, and then turned to Danarius, who was regarding him amusedly.

“He moves with much purpose. What purpose might that be?” the magister mused, in the same tones that he had used when considering whether or not to keep her on their first meeting. She felt a cold chill spread down her spine.

“Release my sister,” Carver demanded. Danarius laughed.

“You mean my little falcon?” He gestured to her, and she sank into a bow automatically, nearly dropping her burden. Carver’s jaw clenched. The weapons were heavy and she felt herself straining under their weight. Neither Danarius nor Hadriana noticed, or if they did, cared.

“You will let her go,” Carver said- no, ordered- gaze steady, and she realised that the Wardens had changed Carver. He was no longer a whiny brat. Pride, an almost forgotten emotion, welled up in her. Her arms started shaking and she grunted quietly as she hoisted her load higher in her arms.

“Oh, put them down, girl,” Danarius sighed, and she knelt, placing them carefully with a huge sigh of relief and a mumbled ‘Thank you, Master.’ At the address she saw Carver’s fists clench, probably unconsciously, from the corner of her eye, and flinched back.

“She’s a good little falcon. I’m keeping her.”

She risked a glance at Fenris and he seemed calm and composed. But beneath that, she could see he was dying to put his fist through Danarius. For that matter, she was too, if she could manage the courage.

“No.” In one word Carver managed to make clear that if Danarius did not release his sister, he would carve him up into little magister bits and leave them scattered around the market.

“Property law in Ferelden dictates that you cannot steal, yes?” Danarius asked. “That it is the prerogative of the owner as to what happens to the property?”

“My sister is not property,” Carver snarled.

“Yes, she is. My property, in fact. And as such… the answer remains… no. We’re done here Hadriana.”

Danarius and Hadriana walked away, and the two slaves automatically fell in behind them, Fenris gathering the merchandise in his arms before he did so. Mercy cast Carver a frightened look before she vanished from sight.

XX

“We must move on,” Stroud finally said after he’d judged that the other had stared for long enough after Mercy’s vanished back. “We have dallied too long.”

“I’m not leaving without her,” Carver said flatly. Stroud opened his mouth, but Carver cut him off. “I don’t care. You go on. I’m staying.”

“You cannot,” Stroud insisted.

“I can and I am.” Carver set his jaw and stared at Stroud. The man stared back for a long moment before he finally nodded.

“Best of luck.” The two men shook hands firmly.

“And to you.” Stroud turned his back and for the second time in as many minutes Carver watched someone’s retreating back until it disappeared. Then went the way Mercy- and Danarius- had gone.

XX

The first problem was getting Mercy out. He’d asked around about Danarius’s ‘Falcon’ and learned that she was valued property and many offers had been made for her, and all rejected. Which left him going in and taking her out- stealing her. And Fenris, he reminded himself hurriedly. She’d never forgive him for leaving Fenris behind.

All this assumed that he could even get in, let alone near the pair.

Which returned his attention to the problem at hand.

Danarius knew his face and intent- no chance of bluffing in. Both Fenris and Mercy were valued bodyguards (from what he’d heard at least) and as such near the magister’s person at all times.

This was going to be tricky, he thought with a groan.

XX

He decided that his best chance was to sneak in at night, so scouted the area carefully and made his move a few nights later.

As it turned out, there weren’t too many guards around the mansion, and a servant’s path around the side led to the back door. One guard was patrolling it and he took him down with a precision pummel strike from his sword hilt. Other than that, it was quiet.

The back door led to the kitchen, empty and cavernous. He slipped out and found himself in a short passage lined with shabby doors, but was soon in the main part of the house. The bedrooms were on the upper storey and he nervously climbed the stairs, sure he was being watched. The house was too empty.

But the thought of Mercy drove him on, despite possible surveillance. They’d have seen his entrance and if he backed out now he’d never get another chance at this.

XX

He found her sitting outside a room, barely dressed and shaking badly. Fury engulfed him and he would have throttled Danarius then and there when she stopped him- though she probably didn’t mean to. She didn’t even realise it was him until he spoke.

“Don’t, she’ll be really mad,” she whispered, staring at the floor. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“‘She’?” he asked pointedly, frowning, and she stared up at him, eyes wide, crossing her arms over her chest protectively and hunching over.

“Carver? What are you doing here?” He decided to put aside the implication that a ‘she’ had raped his sister aside- and that it seemed to be a regular occurrence- for now in favour of getting her out.

“Rescuing you,” he replied. “Where’s Fenris?”

A shaky finger pointed at another door, closed. He started towards it, but again, she stopped him, intentionally this time.

“Wait,” she said. “He’ll come out soon.” Her voice was dead and he crouched beside her concernedly.

“What happened to you?” he asked softly. “How did you end up here?” She shuddered violently in reply and refused to meet his eyes. He dropped it.

“Tell me about this… ‘she’.” It was more of an order than anything else, mostly out of habit. A few years with the Wardens did that to you.

“Mistress Hadriana,” Mercy replied promptly, straightening as she did. “She is apprenticed to my Master. I am her bodyguard.” Her unthinking obedience, that of the slaves he had seen around the market, made him scowl. Oh how he’d love to kill Danarius for doing this to his sister.

“And Hadriana rapes you?” The question came out harsher than he intended and she flinched away, looking fearfully at the door.

“I am to serve her however she desires, ser.” Her resignation to this (once, she would have made the remains of anyone who dared do more than look at her without her permission unidentifiable) set his blood boiling and he set his jaw tightly. It would do no good to scare her even more.

The other door opened a crack then and Fenris sidled out, his own clothes dishevelled, obviously pulled on in a hurry. The elf sighed wearily and went to join Mercy, but then his sharp green eyes fell on Carver and he placed himself protectively before the woman.

“Hello, Fenris,” Carver said carefully, grimacing slightly. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a fist stuck in his chest.

“She’s been through enough without you,” the elf snarled softly yet fiercely, and Carver was glad his sister had such an ardent protector. Who, he suspected, could do nothing to protect her from Hadriana and Danarius, and was probably feeling overly guilty and undoubtedly furious, willing to take it out on anyone who threatened her whom he could in fact protect her from. Like him.

And it had to be admitted that he’d never exactly been gentle with Mercy.

“I just want to take her home, I promise.” It said a lot about their treatment here that Fenris was concerned that he would harm her. They may have argued a lot but he’d never crossed that line. His blood boiled again but he contained it as best he could. Fenris stared at him for a long moment then abruptly turned to Mercy, who was staring at him, seeking reassurance.

“Come on,” he murmured, and Carver marvelled at how soft his voice was. He’d never heard him sound so caring- or so worried- before. He breathed a sigh of relief, glad that Fenris had decided to trust him, for now at least.

“Won’t they catch us?” Mercy asked in a small voice, looking nervously at the door. Grimly Fenris smiled.

“They can try.”

With that she climbed to her feet, trembling, and clutched the elf’s hand. Fenris looked at Carver, who led the way out. The pair followed.

XX

The silence was oppressive as the trio traversed the streets, trying to get as far away from Minrathous as possible. He led the way to the docks, where he’d arranged a ship to take them back to Kirkwall, just in case he succeeded. Several times he glanced back to see that Fenris and Mercy were still with him, and found they were- just weren’t making a noise. It was eerie how silently they were moving. Fenris, of course, had always moved like that, but he’d just thought it was something to do with him, and Mercy had experience in slipping away from Templars.

But now she was moving like a ghost. No, he suddenly thought, like a slave. Like the slaves in the market. Desperate to avoid notice. This was the walk of slaves.

His heart constricted and he had to turn away from them, unable to bear the thought.

XX

The ship captain was getting impatient but was still there. He called out loudly to Carver on seeing him.

“Fin’lly! We settin’ off then?” Carver nodded, not bothering to ask him to lower his voice. He indicated the boarding ramp.

“Go up,” he told Fenris and Mercy. Fenris gave him a long look before doing so, Mercy meekly following him. Carver glanced around nervously and went up too. The captain followed and raised the plank before setting off.

XX

“Just like you.” Carver smiled fondly at Mercy, who was staring at the rocking floor, hands clasped before her meekly, absolutely still, awaiting orders. Where was the fiery girl he had foundation-shaking arguments with in front of Gamlen’s fire? “You just can’t keep your nose out of trouble, can you?”

He expected (or rather hoped for) something about how her nose alone didn’t get into trouble, the rest of her did too. It was the kind of retort that made him groan, that she was so good at. Instead she said, in a tiny, shaking, voice, “Sorry, ser.”

It terrified him.

“Mercy?” he asked, tenderly, but she didn’t react. “Mercy?”

She didn’t respond. Evidently it had been a long time since she had been called by her name. He took a deep breath, hating what he was about to do.

“Falcon.”

Her head snapped up as if it were on a spring.

“Yes, Master.” The response was so automatic it was probably beat into her. He could see there were scars up her arms and probably her legs too. What manner of foul things had he done to her? How did those scars get there?

“Sorry, Carver,” she apologised meekly and returned to staring at the floor. He couldn’t take it anymore. He touched her shoulder delicately and she flinched away. Heart heavy, he went up to the deck.

XX

Neither of the freed slaves spoke to him much on the journey to Kirkwall. Mercy clung to Fenris like a limpet, and Fenris was furious at him for using the dreaded ‘f’ word on her, so he took to spending as much time as he could away from the hold and the corner of the deck they had taken to occupying in fine weather, instead trying to help the crew.

He wasn’t particularly useful on deck but tried his best and ended up spending time with the sailors, who were amused by his efforts, amused enough to adopt him as something of a pet. They took him under their wing, showing him basic jobs and knots. Needless to say, he didn’t think he’d be joining a ship crew any time soon.

The crew got on well with Fenris, apart from one notable example of bad judgement. The deckhand had propositioned Mercy. She had refused. He had persisted valiantly. But for his trouble, Fenris put his fist through his heart. He didn’t kill him, though, not wanting to anger their hosts over much, and since then none had even looked at Mercy the wrong way.

The captain was surprisingly cheerful about it.

“He shoulda listened,” he shrugged.

Mercy could only hold a conversation with Fenris. If anyone else spoke to her, she bowed and kept her eyes fixed to the floor, trembling. If she was asked a direct question, she always ended her reply with ‘Master’ or ‘ser’. The captain had tried to tell her that ‘Captain’ would do, but her only reply was ‘sorry, ser.’

“Don’t blame ‘er,” the captain told Carver one day. “A slave’s life’s a hard one. It’s a noble thing yer doing, bringin’ ‘er home, but don’ ‘spect ‘er to show grat’tude.” Carver gazed at Mercy, squished into a corner fearfully, sniffing the salty air occasionally and glancing around guiltily as if she was going to be punished for it, and sighed.

“I know,” he said.

His sister was still badly seasick, and spent most of her time retching over the side. He didn’t even think to mock her this time. She refused food and the crew stopped laughing at her after Fenris threatened to tear out the heart of the next person to laugh.

No one doubted he would do it.

XX

It was rather strange pulling into the Gallows in a ship again. He felt like a refugee again as he climbed out, followed by Fenris and Mercy. Mercy stared around the city which used to be her home in astonishment and tears glittered in her eyes.

“Home,” she whispered hoarsely, the first thing he’d heard her say for days. “I never thought to return.” Carver smiled widely at the wonder in her voice.

“Let’s get you home, sis,” he said.

“Home,” she repeated and smiled faintly.

XX

Mercy crept around her own mansion as if someone was going to punish her for looking the wrong way at things. Bodahn’s enthusiastic greeting saw her flinching into the wall and when a young elven servant she didn’t know (Orana, she said her name was, and a vague memory of arguing with Fenris in the slaver’s den before Hadriana had captured them flickered to life) curtseyed to her her eyes went wide with surprise.

“Mistress Hawke is out, but you can make yourself comfortable and wait for her if you wish,” the elven girl said politely. Fenris stepped ahead of Mercy to let her recover.

“Orana, was it?” he asked and the elf nodded.

“Yes, Master,” she said and he grimaced.

“None of that Master business. Do you remember me?” The girl tipped her head to one side and examined him, finally nodding.

“You rescued me from the cave. Mistress Hawke said that she would take me- oh!” suddenly her eyes widened as she looked at Mercy. “Mistress Hawke! I humbly apologise.” She hurriedly knelt but Mercy shook her head, irrationally terrified that Hadriana would punish her for claiming the title. Her breath quickened at the thought.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t bow. Don’t… just… don’t.” She had a sudden image of Hadriana before her and her knees weakened. By rights she should be the one kneeling, head down offering apologies. She was been a bad slave and…

“I am not a slave,” she hissed suddenly, vehemently, trying to convince herself.

“Of course not, Mistress,” the visibly confused Orana said, frowning. “Are you alright? Do you need to rest?” Mercy opened her mouth to reply and felt herself trembling. She nodded mutely and the girl sprang to her feet.

“I’ll do it, Mistress,” Mercy muttered automatically, head bowed.

“It’s my job, Mistress,” the servant protested, frowning, but Mercy shook her head, still staring at the floor. She shook herself from the past determinedly. She was home again. On protesting muscles she raised her head.

“No. I’ll do it. One more thing- are you being paid?” Orana nodded hesitantly.

“Mistress Hawke insisted on paying me, Mistress.” A sigh of relief escaped her even as she flinched at the address.

“Good. I will have no slaves in my house.” Fenris touched her hand and she looked at him, weariness clouding her eyes.

“Come on,” he said gently. She nodded and let him lead her to the bedroom- her bedroom, she owned it, she owned this house, she owned the bed and was allowed to sleep on it, she wasn’t going to be punished for napping on the job if she was caught- and lie her down, smoothing the covers over her. He made to leave.

“Please… don’t leave me alone…” he stopped and turned back to her, perching on the side of her bed.

“I remain by your side,” he promised, and this time, he could keep it.

XX

“Mercy!” a voice cried enthusiastically and Mother ran in her room as she sat up, looking around confused. A thick blanket covered her and she was in a bed- a proper bed. Panicked, she shoved the blanket off and tumbled off the side of the bed, hitting the floor hard and picking herself up quickly to kneel before Hadriana knew she’d been in the bed.

“Mercy, you’re home and you’re safe! Thank the Maker!” Mother cried and launched herself at her daughter, who held herself stiffly, trembling terribly. Mother frowned and took a step back.

“Darling?” she asked and she stared at the floor determinedly.

“Mother,” she said, a faint smile in her voice. “It’s… good to see you.” The hesitation in her voice set Mother off on a new track.

“What’s wrong, darling?” she asked. “Did they hurt you? Carver told me he found you in Tevinter- what were you doing in Tevinter?”

“My Master lives there,” Mercy replied promptly. “As does Mistress Hadriana, who I am assigned to protect and serve.” Mother’s face fell and tears glittered in her eyes.

“Oh, baby…” Again she flew at Mercy but this time Fenris stopped her.

“It would be best if you refrained from touching her,” he said, clear warning in his tone. Mother frowned in confusion.

“Why?” she asked, sounding hurt.

“Because…” she couldn’t tell her about Hadriana just yet. “Because I…” she couldn’t think of a suitable excuse but Mother seemed to figure it out.

“They beat you? My poor baby!” Her voice rose and Mercy flinched back at it. Raised voices meant punishment. Hadriana would always beat her or worse (she shuddered and tensed up involuntarily) after she’d had an argument to make herself feel better. It depended on the severity of the argument.

Her silence was all the answer Mother required- or perhaps the way she held her thighs tightly together was the answer she found. Tears filled Mother’s eyes and she bit her lip before she abruptly left the room.

XX

Word spread fast that Mercy Hawke had come home. Varric was the first to visit, gruffly hugging her as she sat in the corner. She burst into tears on seeing him.

“I… I never thought…” she couldn’t finish her sentence.

“Bianca missed you,” the dwarf said with a smile. “It’s good to see you both home safe.”

Anders’ reaction was just as she’d expected. He caught sight of her and immediately went into healer mode. His horror was predictable and she smiled very slightly at him.

“What happened?” he demanded and she flinched back, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Fenris growled at her side and he backpedalled.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “I… I missed you.” Predictably, he completely ignored Fenris.

“I missed you too,” she murmured with a weak smile.

Aveline’s eyes went hard as she took her friend’s condition in, fists clenching at her side. Again, Mercy flinched back and Aveline muttered furiously under her breath.

“If he ever dares to show his face, I will kill him,” she vowed, looking Fenris over carefully. The elf just regarded her steadily.

“I see you haven’t changed,” the redhead remarked and he shrugged slightly.

“No,” he replied.

Merrill squealed on seeing them and threw her arms enthusiastically around her friend. Mercy sat frozen in the circle of her arms, trembling, until she drew back, peering concernedly at her.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked anxiously and Fenris shook his head grudgingly.

“No,” he said.

“You’ve… not done anything wrong,” Mercy finally managed. “I’m just… it’s not your fault, Merrill. I missed you.”

“I missed you too. We were so worried about you but we couldn’t do anything. We could have probably followed you but she warned us that if we did she’d kill you and we didn’t want to get you killed…” Mercy put a finger to Merrill’s lips gently.

“Hush.” The quiet lasted about two seconds.

“I’m so glad you’re home safe. I mean I knew you’d come back, you’re a Hawke and nothing can hold you down, and of course you’d be safe… I’m babbling again I’ll shut up now,” she added when she saw Mercy’s familiar amusement and Fenris’ exasperation.

“Nice to know some things never change,” Mercy remarked to Fenris after she was gone.

Isabela, they found out, had left Kirkwall some time ago. Mercy couldn’t hide her disappointment. Varric also caught her up on the latest news in Kirkwall- the Qunari had rebelled and the Arishok had killed Meredith. Cullen, now Knight-Commander, had killed the Arishok; but the Viscount was dead, as was his son. Now Cullen and his Templars were in control and squeezing the city tightly in their grasp, particularly the mages.

Having being used as a blood mage’s power repository for the last few years, Mercy had little sympathy.

“Mages will become magisters if they are allowed,” she spat bitterly, tracing one of many scars on her arm as she did.

Varric sighed.

“It’s slavery, then. I always thought it was just the elf, but it must be slavery.”

XX

Carver took the guest room, as Mother refused to let him sleep in the Hanged Man, and for the first time in years, the entire remaining family was in one place. Gamlen visited as well, and looked over Mercy with pity.

“Master Gamlen,” Mercy muttered in greeting, automatically bowing as she was expected to when greeting guests. “Please, enter.”

“Look at me, girl,” Gamlen said, voice tender. She did so and he touched her shoulder gently. She stiffened beneath his hand.

“It’s good to have you back.” She smiled a little. Then he went inside and she shut the door, waiting beside it for more guests to arrive before reminding herself that this was her house and she had no more guests.

This was her house, not Danarius’. Her house and she could do whatever she wanted to it. Her house and she could invite whoever she liked over, and she could play host. She wasn’t merely required to serve and stand behind Hadriana, doing whatever the magister desired. Which was her rightful place.

“This is my house,” she murmured. “My house!” She drew in a deep breath and forced her head high, walking straight into the middle of the room despite all her instincts telling her slaves belonged on the sidelines where no one could see them.

Fenris smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on a third one now :)


	3. Interlude: Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deserves a quiet night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted three years ago and written three years ago on my tumblr and I completetly forgot to post it what

It was just a regular evening. No special events and no friends bashing the door down to ask for help or offer company. Just the two of them, Mercy peeling potatoes and Fenris preparing meat for cooking, rubbing oil over the surface so it wouldn’t burn in the fire, his strong hands kneading it gently, and Mercy’s eyes were trained on them. They were beautiful hands, so sure and confident, gentle and firm, strong and commanding. He caught her gaze and looked up, smiling at her as she blushed and turned back to the potatoes.

Orana had offered to do the cooking, but both had declined. This was their evening, and they wanted to do it themselves. Both were uncomfortable with Orana around, scurrying under their feet no matter how many times they told her she was a servant, not a slave.

There were no slaves in the Hawke Estate. Mercy would not have them.

They worked in comfortable silence, the silence of those who had known each other long enough not to need to fill the space with talk, Fenris humming softly under his breath. When the food was on the fire they sat down to watch it, ready to turn it or bank the fire as needed. Mercy made sure she had a water spell at her fingers if it was required, grimacing as she felt the magic pulse through her.

She did not like her magic, the feel of it in her veins. But she had to use it, she knew; she needed to use it so it did not explode from her as it had at the beginning of her freedom when she had refused to use it at all, when she had given it no quarter, no room to breathe, no way to escape. She’d had a fight with Mother, and it had burst from her in a big blast, the room suddenly frozen.

She’d locked herself in her room for three days after.

But now she recognised the usefulness of magic again, it had been long enough that she could use it without cringing or feeling disgust, though she would never shake the memory of the blood magic running through her veins, the blood magic Danarius had forced her to carry for him to power his spells, the seductive whisper of demons when she was at her lowest.

She shook her head. That time was passed; she had new memories to make.

Fenris was watching her, green eyes inscrutable and she knew he knew what she was thinking about. He stepped by her side and took her hand, twining his fingers through hers. He was out of his armour, wearing just a simple tunic and pants, and looked softer for it, though she knew he was no softer, that he was just as dangerous as when he was clad in his spiked mail with his sword at his side.

She tugged on her red soft robe to cover the scars as it slipped up her wrist and he covered her hand with his other hand as he drew close, slowly, letting her close the distance between them and press her lips to his the way he knew she needed to control their intimacy. His white hair tickled her forehead as she slowly, cautiously deepened the kiss. He reciprocated just as far as she pushed and when she pulled back didn’t pursue her.

They were surprised to find Orana tending to the fire and decided to let her when her huge, hopeful eyes trained on them. They stepped aside, hands still joined, and she breathed a sigh of relief as they went into the library to sit together until dinner was served.

She lit the candles with matches, unwilling to squander her magic on such a small task, and they settled into the armchair before the fire, fitting comfortably side by side in the large chair meant for one, slim enough each that they weren’t crowding each other.

Their hands rested between them and they just sat in silence, holding each other comfortably for a long time.

They had taken a long time to grow comfortable with this level of intimacy, and the romance that had come along with it was almost a surprise. While trying to get used to friendly touch again, to the security of freedom, they had just melded together in mutual need.

It was slow. Were Isabela still in Kirkwall she’d no doubt have left suggestive notes in Mercy’s journal about what she could do or wear to get him to jump her. But she didn’t want to be jumped; she wanted to take it slow. To move from stage to stage as they were comfortable, no faster. He did not push her; she did not push him. Neither wanted to go too fast and relive their experiences, so they went slow. They held hands, they kissed, they shared a bed and pressed against each others’ sides for warmth and comfort when needed, or just when they wanted to. The last was becoming more common; both were seeking it out simply out of desire for touch more often.

She hadn’t thought to feel desire again, but here she was. And he had not thought it either, and he was rubbing her palm with his thumb tenderly, fascinated, as if it was a precious, fragile butterfly, exploring it.

It was a hand that was rough and calloused, not fragile at all. Mage she might be but she had still lived a life on the road and worked as a mercenary, even now. For she was still a mercenary; she might be paid by the Viscount but she was still a mercenary.

Athenril had been fascinated with her hands, turning them over and over while they lay in bed and wondering how a mage had such callouses and scars. She hadn’t told her the stories. There had been no emotion involved with her, both merely wanting a warm body to lie with, and both knew it. But she was willing to tell Fenris.

“Carver did that,” she said, pointing at the faint scar across her palm that he was rubbing with the edge of his thumb. He looked up at her. “We were roughhousing before my magic manifested. We had practice swords Father made for us. Carver pushed me over and I cut my hand on a sharp rock.” Fenris kissed it gently and she smiled.

“And this one?” he asked, indicating another, a small burn on her wrist.

“All my fault,” she said ruefully. “Father was trying to teach Bethany and I to control fire. I let it get out of control.” She grinned crookedly at him. “There’s a reason I do wards against fire better than fire.” Fenris laughed and she leaned close to him. He fingered the scar across the bridge of her nose, leaning close.

“Darkspawn,” she said. “We were fleeing Lothering.” She closed in for a second. She’d earned that when she let Bethany die. She sucked in a breath through her nose. “The ogre got me. I went flying with one of his shockwaves, smacked my face against the ground, earned a mouthful of dirt and a faceful of blood for my inattention.” She moved hesitantly against him and he opened his mouth for the kiss in invitation. She pressed her lips to his and he circled his arms around her waist. She leaned into the grip, feeling safe, rested her head against his shoulder upon breaking the kiss.

Fenris never shared the story of his scars. She knew the ones that had been collected with her around; the rest were inflicted while in the service of Danarius or running from him, and she didn’t press him to talk about them. She knew herself that she never spoke of her time in his and Hadriana's service willingly, never mentioned the scars that covered her arms and legs and body and marked where blood was taken from her for rituals, that marked the times the demons sang to her.

He rested his chin atop her head, his fingers skating over her back over her robe, and she stiffened slightly when they danced down towards her waist. He stopped instantly.

“My apologies,” he said, and she shrugged it off, kissed it away.

“Don’t be.” He hummed against her hair and she rested against his chest in comfortable silence, hands clasped, weariness starting to come over her.

When Orana arrived they were both asleep, her curled into his chest and his arms clasped around her back. She slipped out again and shut the door quietly.


	4. A Vicious Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy gets better, but the Circle finds out shes back, and you can't allow an apostate free reign in the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, again, written three years ago. I posted it on my tumblr but completely forgot to post it here??? oops.

Mercy Hawke woke in a proper bed, under a thick blanket, supremely warm and comfortable, and hurtled out of it. Her clothes were clean and warm; she had no time to remedy that before Hadriana came in and found her. She braced for a beating, to have her head dragged back by her hair, sharp nails digging through her scalp, a silky voice hissing in her ear and her wrists slit open roughly and her blood been forced out of her in punishment.

None of these things happened, though she waited for them. What happened instead was Fenris threw himself before her instinctively, lyrium tattoos glowing, and she realised that she was somewhere else.

She dragged several breaths in through her mouth and nose and forced herself to calm down. She smiled at Fenris shakily and he stopped glowing slowly, touching her cheek tenderly.

“Are you alright?” he asked and she considered the truth before answering- she wanted to lie but…

“No,” she said. He crouched before her and cupped her face in his other hand, gazing deep into her eyes. She felt a shiver spreading down her spine and her cheeks heated up under his intense gaze. She averted her eyes and he stepped away, not saying what she had read in his gaze: _neither am I_.

XX

It was Varric who had convinced her to leave the house. She didn’t have the inclination to let the world see her- she was convinced everyone would see a slave- but he’d always been able to talk up a storm. He’d convinced her that she would benefit from the fresh air, and Mother had agreed.

So here she was in the Blooming Rose. Probably not what Mother had intended when she supported Varric, and the delicious irony had sold her on the venture.

“To watch the whores,” Varric had said and she flinched slightly before managing to control herself. They were indeed entertaining to watch, plying their trade, complaining about clients and discussing techniques. She was sitting in a corner with Fenris, starting to enjoy herself despite the insistent images of Hadriana forcing her on her knees and yanking at her hair. These girls (and boys) chose this life, she reminded herself, and seemed cheerful enough about it. It wasn’t like they were treated badly.

Then one of the girls turned to her and winked, allowing a slow smile to spread across her face, seductively blowing a kiss her way, and she felt Hadriana tugging her hair, shoving her down on the bed and bearing down her…

She pushed her chair back blindly and fled, Varric frowning after her, Fenris following her quickly. She was sitting outside, rocking blindly back and forth, gasping for breath and crying.

“Ssh,” he whispered, crouching on the balls of his feet beside her. “Ssh, Mercy.”

She threw herself into his arms and he just held her as she sobbed.

“I was… I saw…” she started but he put a finger to her lips.

“Hush, Mercy,” he whispered. “Hush. It’s alright.” Gradually her rocking subsided and her shaking stopped, her tears reduced to sniffles. He rose, helped her to her feet.

“Let’s go home,” he said, threw a glare at Varric, who had followed him after he got over his shock, and slipped an arm under hers, leading her off. She leaned on him, trusting him to guide her back. She trusted him with everything.

XX

She refused to leave the house after that. Mother did the shopping and Fenris took jobs to keep money coming in so they didn’t have to rely entirely on her hard-earned fortune, which she’d hoarded after buying the estate and updating her equipment (a Lowtown refugee still despite her new status at the time) and she was now reluctant to spend because the extravagance she could afford reminded her of Danarius.

Fenris had moved in when they returned to Kirkwall, ostensibly to protect her, but she knew it was because he wanted to be with her, didn’t want to be alone any more than she did.

She grew gradually more accustomed to life as a free woman and less nervous. She moved about her house more comfortably than she had before, less like a slave. Though, her sleeping patterns never changed- she still napped whenever and wherever she could and woke at the smallest noises, instantly alert, ready to serve. The two of them grew… not closer, what they had figured was about three or four years in slavery together had seen them grow as close as they were likely to (which is to say, they were practically telepathically linked they could read each other so well), but more comfortable with physical contact, at least with each other.

Mercy now understood why Fenris was so sensitive about being touched, especially his markings. She was very delicate about the scars which covered her own body and hated having them touched, more than she disliked any other part of her being touched. They were mostly easily hidden, though, for which she was glad. According to Danarius, he wanted her to remain beautiful. According to Hadriana, who had made the visible scars, one particularly prominent one across her cheek and lips, no amount of scarring could make her uglier. Her hands were mostly unblemished, as was her face and neck. Her arms, though, were covered in white lines, as were her legs. She wore a long robe to cover them up. If she couldn’t see them, maybe she could pretend they weren’t there.

It hadn’t worked so far, but she kept trying.

Fenris moved in front of her and touched her shoulder. Prepared, she managed not to flinch. He’d known for years that she hated people being behind her. Hadriana often tormented her by striding up behind her and yanking on her hair or groping her, sometimes cutting her cruelly. Her stomach and back were mostly free of the scars which plagued her arms and legs, but she had one deep one on her back, where the woman had often cut, specifically aiming for that one area.

Anders had a long and hard battle keeping infection out of that one and making sure it healed clean. If she exerted herself too much it tore open again and the nightmare began anew. And the worst thing was that she had to take her shirt off to let him treat it (again, the placing was intentional) and if there was anything she hated more than someone being behind her, it was her being at least partially unclothed while they were. And healing always involved touch…

Others were only just learning of her aversion to touch, particularly from behind. Mother had learned the hard way that she wasn’t allowed to hug her daughter anymore, and that kissing was completely off limits and would send her into terrified submission, something Fenris explained later quietly.

“Hadriana… often used to kiss her as part of… magic,” he said. And rape, he thought, but he’d stick with magic. Leandra was a smart woman; no doubt she’d figure it out. Leandra’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, my poor baby,” she cried. The elf slipped off, back to Mercy’s side, and waited for her to come back to herself again. She often fell into fits of forgetting, often when touched or tired, and acted like a slave again. She fell into both categories right now.

And did he ever know the indecision and insecurity that was plaguing her.

“Mercy,” he murmured and she looked up at him trustingly. “Come here, Mercy. Rest.” Her eyes darted to the bed nervously.

“Are you sure Fenris?” she asked. “What if she finds me?”

“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about that.” She smiled tiredly.

“Thanks, Fenris.” She climbed into the bed and curled in a tight ball under the sheets. He listened to her breathing as it almost instantly slipped into sleep-breath. One thing a slave learned was to sleep when they could. Protectively he placed himself by the door and waited for morning.

XX

Varric still visited them after Fenris had forgiven him for the Blooming Rose fiasco. He told them all about the latest news and shared his new stories. Merrill perched on the side of the bed and chattered away like a little bird on a regular basis. Aveline made a point to tell them whenever she slaughtered a new group of slavers and to check on how they were doing. Anders checked up on her to make sure her scars healed and often stayed for dinner. He was slowly mending the gap between them and even had the consideration to not spread his manifesto around her house, proving just how important this was to him. Fenris may not like him, but if Anders understood anything, it was mistrust, and he was handling this with a gentleness that he was grateful for.

Slowly Mercy started coming to life again. She smiled and laughed and looked forward to the visits of her companions, started asking questions about the general state of Kirkwall and what they'd been up to.

Once he found her sitting on her doorstep, watching the people pass by, listening to their idle chatter. He was glad to see her in the sun. She was rather pale.

"It's funny," she said quietly. He looked at her as he sat down beside her. She gestured out at the crowds. "It felt like the world had ended. But look at them. Nothing's changed." She looked down. "I'm the only one whose changed." Fenris squeezed her hand softly and she turned to him, startled at the sudden contact.

"You'll heal," he said softly. She tried to smile for him.

XX

Her nightmares remained her private hell, but she didn't fall into the mode she'd lived in for the last four years as much as time passed. It was gratifying to see her old strength coming back- slowly but surely.

Suppressing her magic as she was it exploded out of her when she was stressed and she always rushed to apologise and deflated after, and Fenris found himself in the position of having to convince her _to_ use her magic after the ice she'd conjured in a fit of panic had melted and left water all over the floor for Orana to clean.

"You cannot bottle it up," he said gently, and her eyes were wide and afraid. Her hand went to her wrist and he knew what she was indicating. "You can't let them rule you any longer." Trembling, she clung to him and he let her, carefully leaving his hands on her side so not to make her more stressed than she already was.

It took her another outburst, in which she burned a tapestry and Orana both, to finally take his advice.

For the first time she took an old staff lying around the estate in hand and stared at it. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it but she forced herself to hold it.

The she raised it and, with a hint of determination, a familiar spark in her eyes, whispered an ice spell.

The ice spread in a semicircle before her and she let out a breath as she watched it, dropping the staff, and her shoulders dropped as she exhaled.

She had no words, but as she turned to face him, she didn't need them.

A pale smile lit her lips.

XX

It was months before the Templars came. By this time her fits of forgetting were rare and she was even allowing her mother to hug her at times, something Leandra was delighted about. She slept easier and breathed easier. She even went past her doorstep. Stuck to the civilised parts of Kirkwall these days, though, and only left during the day. She didn't use her magic much but every now and then she pulled the staff out to cast a fireball just to prove she could still do it, and Fenris couldn't have been more proud of her.

The knock on the door, heavy handed and booming, nearly knocked it off its hinges and Orana scurried to answer.

“Mistress, guests for you,” she called and Mercy came down. She’d grown used to been called Mistress, though she still hated it, though it still made her look around for Hadriana every time. She tugged her sleeves down to cover as many scars as she could and smiled warmly at Orana (because damn if she didn’t feel like Hadriana what with all the bowing and scraping she did, and damn if she didn’t feel like a bad slave every single time), then turned to her guests.

She froze.

“Ser Cullen,” she stammered, swallowing. She’d seen him before, of course, and he knew she was a mage- if he’d heard she was back - she began to tremble.

“Serah Hawke,” he replied tightly and she knew she was right. They were here to take her away. She glanced up the stairs and Fenris appeared as if she’d summoned him. He narrowed his eyes and stared directly at Cullen.

“What do you want?” he hissed flatly. Cullen sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised and indicated that his men should surround her. Fenris pelted down the stairs and placed himself in front of her, snarling.

“Fenris, don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t cause trouble.”

He turned to her and examined her carefully. Placed his hands on either side of her face and deliberately, gently, kissed her. Her jaw dropped for a second, remembered fear vying for control, but she returned it.

Then the Templars pulled her away.

“Where’s your staff?” Cullen asked and she pointed up the stairs at her room.

“I never use it, ser,” she murmured, and Fenris could see her slipping back into slavery before his eyes, as if the last several months had never happened. Cullen frowned.

“Why not?” he asked and his Templars stirred uneasily.

“I am forbidden to use magic without permission,” she replied, eyes fixed to the floor, unmoving. The Templars murmured around her and Cullen looked confused.

“By whom?” he asked, forehead creasing as he frowned deeper.

“My Master.”

XX

They were kind until they got to the Gallows and her robe was stripped from her and her scars revealed. Then they all turned defensive and accusations of ‘blood mage’ flew at her from all sides. She couldn’t stop herself.

“No!” she cried. “I didn’t, I swear! He used me for it but I never used it!” Even if no one understood her they couldn’t miss the abject horror in her voice at the prospect.

“Slow down,” Cullen sighed. “Start at the beginning.”

So she told the whole sordid tale, repeating herself when she was asked to. It took a long time and the Templars weren’t entirely convinced of her innocence at the end but they didn't know what to do with her. Eventually they decided to put her under watch and let her escape to her new quarters, which amounted to a single bunk and chest in a large dorm. She was assigned a staff as they'd not retrieved hers and robes too large for her in order to hide her scars, a courtesy she nearly fell over herself thanking them for.

Clearly uncomfortable at this, the templar indicated that she ought to get changed. He even turned his back on her to afford her privacy as she did.

She didn't get on with the other mages; they thought her a blood mage and too easily broken, as she'd only just being taken. She was never Harrowed. She resisted them taking her blood for her phylactery, but not for long. Ser Alrik frowned contemplatively.

XX

"Ser," she murmured when Ser Alrik waylaid her halfway across the courtyard. He stood before her, looked her up and down in a way that was all too familiar to her. She felt a shudder spread down her spine as her body automatically prepared. She resisted the preparation; she was not a slave and would not bow. She stood a little straighter.

"Come," he ordered and she felt her resolve wavering. But she followed him anyway, taking a deep breath. He led her into a small room and shut the door behind them, locking it with a click. He turned to her with a flourish.

"I hear you're a blood mage," he announced and she shook her head.

"No, ser," she refuted, refusing to be cowed. "I am not a blood mage. I will never consort with demons." His eyes narrowed and she felt herself flinching back but did not let her defiance drop. He took a step closer; her knees buckled. Bravely she held her ground.

"I hear you are. Isn't that true?" She knew the drill; answer yes to everything and get it over with. But she refused to bow any longer.

"No, ser," she repeated more firmly. He grabbed her hair and she felt herself go limp in preparation for what came next.  She struggled against him through her mounting terror.

"I am not a blood mage," she suddenly snarled and wrenched herself  free. "I am not a slave, not to you and not to him!" She marched for the door, gripped her staff tightly and unlocked it before turning back to him.

"Ser," she added, her voice dripping poison.

XX

It was only a matter of time before Alrik told Cullen about what she'd done. They were watching her so closely, looking for signs of blood magic, an excuse to take action against her. She sent a message to Anders telling him she had to get out fast. The next night he Fenris and Varric were waiting for her. Fenris embraced her tightly, checking her all over for injury.

"I'm fine," she said, surprising even herself with how firm her voice was. "Come on."

XX

Anders led the way through the sewers, Varric kept a lookout for Templars behind them and Fenris shadowed her the way he once shadowed Danarius. She quickly brushed that thought away, and the associated image of her following Hadriana. Gripping her staff tightly she drew in a deep breath. She was getting away. She was safe. Fenris met her eyes when she turned back to him and they attempted to smile but couldn't.

The group was quiet and moved quickly. A few smuggles here and there were put down quickly, though she just pressed herself against the wall and Fenris returned fast to her side. Eventually they came to Darktown and she refused to go to Anders' clinic.

"I don't want to bring their attention to you," she said, and reached for Fenris's hand. Fenris took it and Anders glanced between them before deciding not to argue the point. There wasn't anything he could do to sway them. They took one of the cave systems that went to the Wounded Coast used by smugglers out of Darktown and she managed to rouse herself enough to toss a few spells about in battle, more invigorated the closer they got to freedom.

She froze when they exited on the coast though, swallowing hard.

"Mercy?" Fenris asked softly. She stared out, stock still.

"We were here," she finally managed. "When..." Fenris let out a soft noise of comprehension and took her hand.

"They will not take us again," he promised. "Come on." He didn't let go of her hand as he led her out of the entrance's shade and she followed him, her hand shaking in his. "We'll be safe." She drew in a deep breath and released it, her fingers curling through his.

"Okay," she said, and he was rewarded by her trust even as he worried that he couldn't live up to it. Where could they go? The Templars had her phylactery, they could track her.

No, he couldn't let himself think like that. There were other cities in the Free Marches, there were other countries in Thedas. He'd been on the run before. He could handle this. They could handle this. He pulled her close and she stood by his side, looking small and frail as they stared out over the ocean.

"Where are we going to go?" she asked and Fenris glanced at her.

"Away," he said and she just nodded. She could live day to day. She was used to it. She didn't quite manage the smile she was trying for, but Fenris saw it anyway and returned it.


	5. Epilogue: Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken things do not last long in the wilderness of Thedas.
> 
> It's good, then, that Mercy Hawke is not a broken thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this one was actually written this year lmao. I felt like I needed to close my Bitter Pill verse properly. I might do more drabbles if inspiration comes up, or I get a prompt or something, but this is probably it.

Broken things do not last long in the wilderness of Thedas.

When bandits came, determined that they were appropriate victims, Fenris fought them off and Mercy was too frightened to raise her staff. He never held it against her. She did.

“I used to be so good at this,” she wept into his arms. He held her tightly.

“There is no shame in taking your time to heal,” he said, ever determined she was going to heal, that she hadn’t simply stagnated in Danarius’s mansion, let her fear swallow her whole. “I can take care of you.”

When the first Templars came she tried to tell herself she would have been useless against them when they could take away her magic, but the truth was she didn’t even try and as she tended to Fenris’s light wounds after she hated herself.

“Fenris,” she breathed. “Oh, Fenris, I’m so sorry…” Fenris smiled at her.

“There is no shame in being unable to fight them,” he said again, and again, and again.

They found a bow in a bandit hideout, and once Mercy had provided for her family with one of those; she took it determinedly and Fenris smiled at her as he set up targets.

She had forgotten how much it hurt, how much arm strength was needed, but she was determined to learn again, and as the months passed her aim was steady and her slim frame was building up with muscle and the squirrels and rabbits she caught them for dinner, and she glowed with pride she had thought she’d forgotten.

She started fletching her own arrows again when she found appropriate materials, as well as scavenging them where she could, and her quivers were always full for the beasts and bandits who attacked them.

She stood a little straighter now.

When it was hard to light a fire she used her magic to conjure one and Fenris smiled at her. She warded their camp at night without much thought, and without the memory of Danarius’s demons haunting her.

She dreamed of being a broken thing, of Hadriana and of Alrik, but when she woke and had her staff and bow at her side she was not broken.

When the Templars caught up with them a year later she stood by Fenris’ side with her bow in hand (no need to try to use magic when they would only take it from her) and shot an arrow through the eye socket of the lead Templar.

“Kill the mage!” his second shouted in fury as the leader fell to the ground with a crash. “Kill them both!”

“We’re to take her to the Circle,” another objected.

“Kill them both!” the second yelled again.

The pulse that stole her magic cut her to the core but she grimly held to her feet and, with hands that shook only a little, she fired her bow.

The second was the only one left alive.

“You will regret that,” he spat her as he bled out and she kicked his helmet off. “You are going to _regret_ \- you’ll be made Tranquil…” once, when that was a very real threat, the terror of it had choked her, when Alrik’s heavy hand on her wrist had made her go limp.

No more.

“No I won’t,” she said and stabbed him in the throat with an arrow, watched him gurgle as he died.

Fenris smiled at her as he scavenged their pockets for anything useful.

Broken things do not last long in the wilderness of Thedas.

It was good, then, that Mercy Hawke was not a broken thing.


End file.
